Burn
by Verses
Summary: We all lust after that which we cannot have


**Donald.**

Deep in the catacombs beneath Sicily, Donald typed frantically. The bodies around him leered and grinned. He felt more comfortable here, what should have been his final resting place.

He belonged here, amongst his fellow dead.

The nobles of Sicily.

His white fingers – which appeared entirely without flesh – struck each key with a muted click, made loud in the utter silence. His Nosferatue curse rendered him almost indistinguishable from the hanging skeletons and his empty eye sockets flashed with anger. The man on the other end had just the bid another half million. He was a wealthy movie star, whose dealings had become more and more shady as the years progressed. Donald knew everything about him. He could simply have him eliminated…but then the thrill of the chase was gone. He had lost the thrill of the hunt already…he fed on tourists innocent enough to venture below alone. He cackled, a muffled sound from lips pulled back in deaths smile. It would appear the Mr. Argentine had folded. His hands twitched in anticipation, but he could not retrieve the painting tonight. The bidding war had lasted from the moment the sun set to just now, and it was too close to day.

He stood and reached his arms towards the vaulted ceiling. His brittle skin stretched and folded, a frivolous, unnecessary movement…but he felt indulgent tonight.

He fingered an ornate key hanging from around his neck and fell thoughtfully still. Well well well, why not? He hauled himself over to a block of stone in the ground and pulled it out, cliché but useful, his fingers looked like they were going to snap, but he levered it to waist height and skillfully flipped it into the air. He jumped into the hole and had rolled out of the way by the time it landed – perfectly – back into place. A very small cavern greeted him, it hadn't been part of the original tunnel, he had built it himself. It held what remained of his meals. He reached down and crumbled a few bones, chuckling. With his free hand he pulled the key and the rope it hung from off his neck and slipped it into the lock mounted on the wall. The steel door slid open soundlessly and he sighed with bliss, flipping on the light switch. This huge circular room held his collection. The light of the sun poured from every canvas, every screen, every sculpture, huge TV screens played loops of sunrises from movies and documentaries. He even had a sculpture that he had – indirectly – purchased from Marline. It bore no resemblance to the sun in any way he could see, but the title _Jealous Sun_had captured his attention. He had pictures and drawings and he loved them all. Others collected knowledge or trinkets. He snarled. How could they be so blind, so unromantic? He strode through his treasures, pausing to run his bone fingers over a statue or two, lovingly stopping to gaze at the television screens. Purple and orange melded, red and warm yellow complemented each other in lopsided perfection, and in the end it was blue. Bright blue. Not the black navy of night, not the broken darkness. Broken by stars, how he hated them. He hated too when the moon was visible. It did not belong there, in the day. It was only there to haunt and mock him. The sun promised warmth, safety. The brightness hid nothing, praised everything. The sun promised the demolishing of everything impure. Sanitization. Clean.

Icy hunger rumbled in his hollow chest. He _would _hunt tonight, so very close to day. He made his was to the empty space on the wall. This would be where his new painting would hang, an ironic piece, the sun rising over the ocean in the aftermath of a sea battle. Blood in the water. He nodded. He loved it dearly. His acrid, dry laughter struck the walls and disappeared, as he turned away and sprinted to the door. Once among his fellows he slowed and stopped. He heard voices near him. Had he misjudged the time? The "Midnight Tour" so popular this time of year should have long since gone. No…

He began to laugh again.

The modern ghost hunters. Two of them. That would make quite a story, two ghost hunters lost in the catacombs…he threw back his head, his mirth hysterical and loud. The footsteps stopped and then…began running towards him! He doubled over, blood tears of hilarity falling onto the floor and clinging to his cheeks. Oh god, oh god, they were _idioti!_ He straightened up as the two men came into view, and still laughing he cried "*_Oh! Azienda! E gia tempo di pranzo?" _They, he was pleases to discover, understood Italian. Their eyes were wide and the recorder lay, on, in limp hands and the silence was broken only by Donald's own choked laughter.

*This roughly translates into "Oh! Company! Is it already time for dinner?


End file.
